


Se l'amore

by j_gabrielle



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 23:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17611427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_gabrielle/pseuds/j_gabrielle
Summary: His smell reminded Peter of sea brine; the air of a windless summer day, when all there is is the burn of sand and sea cloying in the back of his throat. He loved it all.





	Se l'amore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Death_inspiresme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Death_inspiresme/gifts).



> For Lily, who fights the good fight for Starker and is so funny and so strong x  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Call Me By Your Name belongs to André Aciman, while Tony Stark and Peter Parker belongs to Marvel.  
> I took inspiration from pages 169 - 170, 176-177, 203, 205, 207 and rewrote them to fit.  
> Again, I am a broke ass bitch who owns nothing but love for these characters and CMBYN.  
> I've tagged this fic as 'Underage' because if Tony is Oliver and Peter is Elio, I'm gonna cover my bases just in case.

Tony wanted to take the first taxi. Peter wanted to take the bus instead. He longed for crowded buses, into the sweating mass of people, with Tony pushing his way in behind him. But seconds after hopping on the bus, they decided to get out. 

This was too _real_ , they joked, eyes meeting as they push through the incoming press of bodies who couldn't understand what these fools were doing.

Finally, they hailed a cab. Noting the name of their hotel, and their use of English, the cabby proceeded to make several unexplained turns. " _Inutile prendere tante scorciatoie_ , no need for so many shortcuts. We're in no rush!" Tony smirks at Peter, and says in a flawless Roman dialect.

On opening the French windows of their hotel room, the skyline of domed churches reflecting the light of the setting sun spread out in every direction they can see. Someone had sent them a bunch of flowers and a bowl filled with fruit. The note came from Tony's Russian friend: " _Ti aspettiamo_ , we're waiting for you."

"Am I invited, though?" Peter asks, feeling a shot of discomfort. They hadn't talk at length of what they'd wanted to do except to go for dinner and wander the streets after. Peter had, in that small hopeful way of someone already drunk with knowledge of the body and taste of sex with their lover, assumed their wanderings would eventually bring them back here, to this room with the two beds for two bodies, though only one bed will see any use.

"You are now," Tony replies, refolding the note on the crease, setting it back down on the table. Reaching out for Peter who goes happily to him. They kiss there, in full view of anyone who would care to look up from the street. 

Eventually Tony says he wants a shower, and when Peter sees him naked, he immediately undresses as well. "Just for a second," He says when their bodies touch, inhaling sharply at the thrill of Tony's damp skin against his own. "I wish you didn't have to wash."

His smell reminded Peter of sea brine; the air of a windless summer day, when all there is is the burn of sand and sea cloying in the back of his throat. He loved it all. Licking his lips in anticipation of chasing its taste on skin. 

As if reading his mind, Tony gently coaxes Peter's gaze to meet his own. Amusement crinkles the corners of does brown eyes, calloused fingers sweeping the line of his jaw. "If we lie down now, there'll be no party," He says.

* * *

The party ends up being a gathering on the terrace of a 14th century building. Natasha, who is the owner of the flat that is brimming with music and voices and Peter makes a mental effort to rein in the jealousy born of seeing her coming out of Tony's room once in the blue hours of the morning, of calling her anything but Tony's Russian friend, smiles sweetly at him, kissing his cheeks in greeting when he arrives. The fond amusement that he catches in Tony's eyes tells him his efforts were in vain.

At dinner, Peter is introduced to a melee of individuals who share Tony and his interests in both science and the arts. If he didn't know better, he would have thought that this little excursion to Rome was an excuse to induct Peter into the circle of Tony's friends. The realisation that this, out of everything that Tony could have ever done, this is how he tells him he loves him.

Peter slides his arm around Tony's waist as everyone rises to make the trek to Sant'Eustachio's for coffee. "Thank you," He whispers, stealing a press of his lips to his ear.

"Later," Tony replies against the corner of his cheek.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or more than likely, the closing heat of summer infused into his every pore coupled with the dancing and the good food and the good company, because just after one in the morning, Peter finds himself sick into a garbage bin.

"The most beautiful day of my life and I end up vomiting." He sighs, washing his mouth out with the water of a nearby fountain.

Tony wasn't listening. He pressed Peter against the wall and started to kiss him, hips pushing into hips, arms about to lift Peter off the ground. He has his eyes shut, but he knew that Tony had to stop kissing him to look around him; people could be walking by. Peter didn't want to look. Let him be the one to worry.

Then they kissed again.

And, with his eyes still shut, Peter thinks he hears two voices. Old men's voices. Grumbling something about taking a good look at these two, wondering if in the old days you'd ever see such a sight. But Peter didn't want to think about them. Peter didn't worry, because f Tony wasn't worried, he wasn't worried. Peter thinks he could spend the rest of his life like this; with Tony, at night, in Rome, with his eyes totally shut, one leg coiled around his. Peter thinks of coming back here in the weeks or months to come— for this was their spot.

* * *

They stumble on back to their hotel room, hand in hand, uncaring, stealing kisses again and again and again on the dark lanes of old Rome. The damp heat in the air gives way in the occasional cool breeze that filters through with the sounds of other night revellers returning to their roost echoing through the empty streets.  

"So much for the evening's sexual buildup," Tony teases. Peter laughs, leaning into him. There is so much still he wants to say, to do, to act on. But they can all wait. For now, they have this moment here, on the balcony of their hotel room, basking in the shadow of a room with two beds, though only one of which will see any use.

"I turned down so many. Never went after anyone," Peter confides, tilting his face up to the lightening night sky. It will be daybreak soon. 

"You went after me." 

"You let me."

Strong hands pull him close then, arms caging him in. Binding him. Peter's breath stutters against Tony's lips when they meet. From the distance, he can hear the city slowly awakening.

"Tomorrow let's go somewhere," Peter says.

"Tomorrow is today," Tony replies.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration:  
> [The post that instigated this](https://im-a-goner-foryou.tumblr.com/post/182432216210/wow-i-cant-stop-thinking-about-tony-flying-peter)  
> [Natasha's Roman flat](https://www.luxuryestate.com/p60202365-apartment-for-sale-rome)  
> \--  
> I have never, will never, allow any reposting or translations of my works without my permission. All of my works will and shall only be hosted on my personal accounts on AO3 (j_gabrielle), Dreamwidth (j_gabrielle) and Tumblr (randomingoftherandomness, hardheartshere).
> 
> For those who say that I never said anything, it is clearly stated on my AO3 profile bio.
> 
> I do not have a Twitter account.
> 
> I do not have a Wattpad account.
> 
> **Please Do Not Repost My Fics**


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